There were sounds of weeping o'er thee,
Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee,
Shrouded in thy gleaming veil,
Deaf to that wild funeral wail.
Yet perchance a chastening thought
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, while the stern sad knell
On the air's bright stillness fell—
"From the power of chill and change
Souls to sever and estrange;
From love's wane-a death in life,
But to watch-a mortal strife;
From the secret fevers known
To the burning heart alone,
Thou art fled-afar, away—
Where these blights no more have sway!
Bright one! oh, there well may be
Comfort midst our tears for thee !"
"A long war disturbed your mind
Here your perfect peace is signed;
'Tis now full tide 'twixt night and day
End your moan, and come away!"
THERE were faint sounds of weeping; fear and gloom
And midnight vigil in a stately room
Of Lusignan's old halls. Rich odours there
Filled the proud chamber as with Indian air,
And soft light fell from lamps of silver thrown
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone
Over a gorgeous couch: there emeralds gleamed,
And deeper crimson from the ruby streamed
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set,
Hiding from sunshine. Many a carcanet
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain
And sad and strange the canopy beneath,
Whose shadowy curtains round a bed of death
Hung drooping solemnly, for there one lay,
Passing from all earth's glories fast away,
Amidst those queenly treasures. They had been
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands;
And for his sake, upon their Orient sheen
She had gazed fondly, and with faint cold hands
Had pressed them to her languid heart once more,
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er-
Love's last vain clinging unto life; and now
A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow;
Her eye was fixed, her spirit seemed removed,
Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved,
Far, far away! Her handmaids watched around,
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound
A might, a mystery; and the quivering light
Of wind-swayed lamps made spectral in their sight
The forms of buried beauty, sad yet fair,
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair,
Long in the dust grown dim; and she too, saw,
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe,
Those pictured shapes !-a bright yet solemn train,
Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain,
Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear
Strange voices fell, which none besides might hearSweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh
Of winds o'er harp-strings through a midnight sky.
And thus it seemed, in that low thrilling tone,
The ancestral shadows called away their own.
Come, come, come!
Long thy fainting soul hath yearned
For the step that ne'er returned;
Long thine anxious ear hath listened,
And thy watchful eye hath glistened
With the hope, whose parting strife
Shook the flower-leaves from thy life.
Now the heavy day is done :
Home awaits thee, wearied one!
Come, come, come!
From the quenchless thoughts that burn
In the sealed heart's lonely urn;
From the coil of memory's chain
Wound about the throbbing brain;
From the veins of sorrow deep,
Winding through the world of sleep;
From the haunted halls and bowers,
Thronged with ghosts of happier hours!
Come, come, come !
On our dim and distant shore
Aching love is felt no more!
We have loved with earth's excess
Past is now that weariness;
We have wept that weep not now-
Calm is each once-beating brow;
We have known the dreamer's woes-
All is now one bright repose;
Come, come, come !
Weary heart that long hast bled,
Languid spirit, drooping head,
Restless memory, vain regret,
Pining love whose light is set,
Come away!-'tis hushed, 'tis well,
Where by shadowy founts we dwell,
All the fevered-thirst is stilled,
All the air with peace is filled,—
Come, come, come !
And with her spirit wrapt in that wild lay,
She passed, as twilight melts to night, away.
"How lived, how loved, how died they ?"-BYRON.
"THE dead! the glorious dead!—and shall they rise? Shall they look on thee with their proud bright eyes? Thou ask'st a fearful spell.
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,
What kingly vision shall obey my call?
The deep grave knows it well.
"Wouldst thou behold earth's conquerors? shall they pass
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass
With triumph's long array?
Speak and those dwellers of the marble urn,
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return,
As on their proudest day.
"Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song?
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng
Shall waft a solemn gleam;
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs,
But silent as a dream."
"Not these, O mighty master!—though their lays
Be unto man's free heart and tears and praise
Hallowed for evermore!
And not the buried conquerors-let them sleep,
And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep
In joy, from shore to shore!
"But if the narrow house may so be moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved
Back from their couch of rest;
That I may learn if their meek eyes be filled
With peace, if human love hath ever stilled
The yearning human breast."
"Away, fond youth !-an idle quest is thine:
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine;
I know not of their place.
Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow,
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes faint and low,
Have passed and left no trace.
"Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills,
And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,
Their covering turf may bloom;
But ne'er hath fame made relics of its flowers
Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers, Or poet hailed their tomb."
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